


Seeing Green

by alltheshinywords



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Holidays, Jealousy, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheshinywords/pseuds/alltheshinywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Movie, post-date. A last-minute Christmas party, a certain green dress, a kiss under the mistletoe, and jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Green

**Author's Note:**

> A pure fluff companion to Hey Jealousy (though not necessary). Mostly Claire/Owen, though I also wanted to explore the roots of the one-sided Hoskins/Lowery bromance.

“Owen! Have you seen this?”

 

Owen craned his neck to look at the paper Barry had brought back with him from the dessert table. It took him a moment to realize it was advertising a party, since it had been typed up more like a memo:

 

**To: All Jurassic World Staff**

**Date: December 1**

**Subject: Christmas Party!!!!**

**Please join Mr. Masrani and your fellow coworkers in a holiday celebration. Games, food, and fun. Wear your favorite green and red!! Attendance is STRONGLY encouraged.**

 

Owen rolled his eyes and leaned back again, finishing off the last bite of his sandwich and licking off the leftover mayo for good measure. That document had Claire Dearing written all over it. He didn’t know what was the saddest part: that the woman had clearly never thrown any kind of party before, or the haphazard exclamation points that were so obviously overcompensating for what promised to be a terrible night.

 

“What do you think?” Barry asked, sliding back into his seat. “It could be fun.”

 

“It will most definitely _not_ be,” Owen returned with a sigh, shaking his head. “I’d bet a kidney on it.”

 

Barry shrugged, unfazed. “Okay, but—free food.”

 

“And at what cost, my friend?” Pushing back from the table, Owen rose to his feet. “Nah, I think I’d rather stay in for the night, catch up on _Friends_.” One of the weird things about living on Isla Nublar: satellite TV picked up hardly anything except for _Friends_ , every hour, dubbed in Spanish. Owen had never watched the show when it originally aired, but it was starting to grow on him. He kind of liked that Monica chick.

 

Barry pushed off after him. The other guy wasn’t usually so dogged about anything, but they were between checks from InGen, and the need for free food was getting pretty _real_. “Come on, Owen. One hour. We stock up on potato chips and pigs in blankets then head home.”

 

“I think you’re being pretty optimistic about those food choices, buddy.” Owen shook his head, slowing to a stop as he reached the elevator and punched the down button. “My money would be on some kind of vegan dairy-free tofu puff and celery sticks—whatever it is that uptight red-heads eat to maintain their calorie count to just above starving.”

 

He looked up to see Barry smiling at him knowingly. “Ah. I see. You’re still ‘ _butt-hurt’_ about getting dumped.”

 

Owen was very much beginning to regret having taught Barry the expression ‘butt-hurt.’ He let his face settle into a glower. “I did not get dumped. We mutually agreed that she never wanted to see me again.”

 

And good riddance, as far as Owen was concerned. Claire Dearing was beautiful, sure. But being on that date with her had been like spending the evening with a robot. He’d never actually seen her eat anything. Her smile had looked strained the entire night, her body language stiff. She was probably cold and metallic to the touch—though, this had never been confirmed, since she’d kept about a ten-inch barrier of air between them at all times.

 

Yep. She wasn’t quite human. She was the Clairebot.

 

Barry sighed mournfully, glancing down at the flyer. “Well, if there’s no party, I suppose it’s bread and butter. Again.”

 

Owen raised his eyebrows. “Dude, you splurged on butter? Try spreading some of that wealth around, King Midas.”

 

Shaking his head, Barry took off down the hall, just as the elevator door dinged open. Owen turned to step on—and stopped at the sight of Claire, already inside.

 

Contact since the terrible-date-to-end-all-terrible-dates had been minimal at best, both of them seeming to have mutually agreed upon a battle plan of pretending not to know each other and avoiding each other at all cost. Which might be kind of hard to do in a tiny, cramped elevator, all things considered.

 

Owen’s indecision must have showed on his face as he wavered half-in, half-out of the door. At last, Claire offered him a wan smile, motioning him inside. “Don’t worry, Mr. Grady. I don’t bite.”

 

He scoffed. “That’s not what I’ve been writing about you in the men’s bathrooms.” But he obligingly stepped inside, moving to the opposite side of the box as the doors slid shut behind him.

 

The air immediately shifted into something . . . weird. And that was saying something for the two of them. When Owen wasn’t actively avoiding Claire, he was thinking about her ass in those running shorts ( _that he would no longer be seeing since part of his active avoidance included skipping their nightly gym encounters_ ). There was no middle ground between them.

 

But instead of doing her ice princess act and freezing him out like she usually did, Claire was smiling at Owen, her eyes a little too bright and eager as she sought out his gaze. Yep—weird. “So. How is your . . . ” He saw the exact moment she realized she knew little to nothing about him and began to flounder, “. . . motorcycle?”  


Owen narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you up to, Dearing?”

 

Impossibly, the big blue eyes widened even more, incredulous now. “I’m just having a friendly conversation with my coworker. Is that not permissible—?”

 

“Cut the crap, Claire. What do you want?”

 

She warred a moment longer before at last relenting, all the saccharine pleasantness deflating from her smile. “Are you coming to the party tonight or what?”

 

Thankfully, the elevator chose that exact moment to open up on the ground floor. Owen exited, Claire hot on his heels—he could tell, from the sound her own heels made clicking after him. “All this for some dumb party? Man, you must be pretty desperate.” He turned back to face her, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops and smirking. “Is there gonna be a mistletoe—is that what this is about? Claire, I’ll kiss you anytime you want, you don’t have to create such an elaborate charade—”

 

To his astonishment, she grabbed his hand and pulled him around the corner into the stairwell. Belatedly he realized it was the first physical contact they’d actually made. She was not . . . completely cold, as it turned out. Pretty warm, actually, and soft.

 

“Mr. Masrani loves Christmas!” He had never seen Claire look so utterly miserable. “Which is ridiculous, really, because he’s . . .” She stopped herself, just in time.

 

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Indian?” he finished.

 

Claire glared. “Agnostic,” she bit back, “but he loves the holiday anyway. All the lights and the decorations. I thought I could get away with having some green punch or something, but today he emailed before he got on his flight to say he can’t wait to have his first and best Christmas work party. I knew I should have never let him binge _The Office_ on Netflix . . .”

 

She trailed off, staring glumly off into space. Owen waited a moment before reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “And this is my problem, how?”

 

“I’ve never thrown a party before.” Claire seemed humiliated at having to admit it, but she was too desperate to turn back now.

 

Owen bit back his laugh. “Yeah, I kinda got that from the memo. For future reference, having fun should not be mandatory.”

 

“That’s where YOU come in.” Claire was back to the weird, bright-smiling thing, which meant she must be about one “no” away from cracking. “You’re fun. You wear board shorts—” Seriously, would she never let that one go? “—you drink tequila. You’ll know what people want to do.”

 

“So what you’re saying is . . . you need me?” 

 

Only then did Claire realize she was still holding onto Owen’s hand. She dropped it quickly, folding her arms; and if Owen missed the touch, even a little, he would never let even a whiff of it show on his face.

 

She shook her head, not making eye contact, and he honestly couldn’t tell if that was an embarrassed blush or an angry flush crawling its way up her skin. He liked it, either way. “Look, I could arrange to get you a special holiday bonus, make sure it’s worth your while—”

 

“Because you need me?” Owen wasn’t going to let this one go anytime soon.

 

He waited for her to meet his gaze, saw how badly she wanted to be rude to him, but wouldn’t, at least today. “Are you going to help me or not?”

 

Owen held out a moment longer before sighing. “Let me see your itinerary.”

 

Claire blinked at him. “What makes you think I have an itinerary?”

 

“Dearing, come on.”

 

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she obligingly handed it over. Owen scrolled through, frowning at some of the notes Claire had written. She was right; she had _no_ idea how to throw a party.

 

_Ice, water, balloons, lights, some kind of popcorn???, Christmas CD, a Santa piñata_   

 

Shaking his head, Owen handed the phone back to her. “Delete this, immediately. New list.” He held out his hand, using his fingers. “Chips, dip, finger foods—deep fried, no vegetables—chocolate fountain, alcohol—”

 

Claire had been typing furiously until that last one. She looked up, frowning. “At a work party?”

 

“We don’t work in Utah, Claire. Yes, alcohol, and lots of it.”

 

“Okay.” Smiling a real smile this time—the kind so wide and unexpected that it caught him a bit in the gut, just to look at her—she gripped onto his bicep. “I think this is going to be okay.”

 

Owen could only stare at her hand on his arm. Following his gaze, Claire snatched it away, putting on her best no-nonsense expression again. “Great. Let’s get to work. It’s going to be a long day, Mr. Grady.”

 

With that, she marched back toward the elevator, in full confidence that he would follow after her. Owen sighed, and shook his head. “Great,” he muttered, and did.

 

###

 

Six hours later, they’d assembled something that almost looked like it could be a party in the main hall that was usually reserved for corporate retreats. Some of the things on Owen’s list they’d been unable to obtain so last-minute from their remote location—despite some very red-faced phone calls that Claire made to their distributors—but amazingly, almost everything had come together.

 

As the wait staff hurried around to get all the final touches into place, Owen found a ladder from maintenance and set it up in the middle of the room so he could hang up the mistletoe. Claire had tried to argue with him on that one—“Do we really want a bunch of drunken coworkers having a reason to go at it in the middle of Ballroom B?”—but Owen finally managed to talk her into it. “Don’t mess with a classic, Dearing,” he’d advised her before setting off for the necessary tools.

 

It took only a few moments—or at least, it should have, though about halfway through Owen glanced over and realized Claire was watching him. Staring, actually. Pretending he hadn’t noticed, Owen took his time, displaying his muscles in all their t-shirt bound glory before abruptly looking over at her, making eye contact so she’d know she was caught, and winking.

 

By the time he made it back down the ladder, Claire was all business, her nose up a little higher than it had been the rest of the day. Whoops. He’d activated the Clairebot again. Kinda worth it, though.

 

“I believe those are the last of our tasks,” Claire said, scrolling through her itinerary to confirm. “I’m going to run home and change.” She paused, giving him an appraising once-over. “Is that what you’re planning on wearing tonight . . .?”

 

The woman could write a book on passive aggressive. Owen forced a smile. “I don’t know, Claire. Do you think I should change?”

 

“Well,” Claire gave a practiced, deliberate shrug. “It _is_ a party. Mr. Masrani will be there, along with several key investors, and some of the higher-ups from InGen. But whatever you’re comfortable with, really.”

 

“Great.” Owen matched her shrug. “So, board shorts then?”

 

That wiped the prissy princess look from her face. “Hilarious, Mr. Grady,” she deadpanned, pivoting on her heel and walking away from him.

 

He matched her pace. “Flip-flops? A tank top? I got a sweet fanny pack that holds a butt load of trail mix . . .”

 

###

 

He hadn’t dressed up to impress her, seriously. This whole party thing was last-minute, he was between laundry days, and the pressed white shirt and slacks that he’d worn here for his interview were some of the few things he owned that didn’t smell like raptor at the moment. To prove how much he wasn’t letting her boss him around, Owen rolled up the sleeves and strapped his knife to his pants, just to be totally clear.

 

Predictably, Claire was nowhere in sight as he stepped into the party. He could easily guess she was running around somewhere, freaking out about some last-minute detail, but that was no longer his problem. He’d showed up to the damn thing. Now all that was required of him was to get pleasantly sloshed, scarf down some shrimp cocktail, and maybe—depending on just how sloshed he got—sing “Blue Christmas” on karaoke.

 

Despite his pestering earlier in the day, Barry still hadn’t arrived, so Owen searched the room for someone else who looked as out of place as him to talk to. His eyes landed on Lowery, loading up a plate with chicken wings. Owen hesitated—then, sighing, made his way over.

 

“Hey, Lowery, right?” He motioned to himself before extending his hand. “Owen Grady.”

 

“The raptor guy. Right.” Lowery freed up a hand, wiping off excess barbecue sauce onto his pants before shaking Owen’s. With some relief, Owen saw that he hadn’t dressed up either—just put on a blazer over his usual vintage t-shirt and jeans. Claire would have an aneurysm when she saw that.

 

At the thought of Claire, Owen’s smile faded a little. She was technically the reason why Owen had never made more of an effort to get to know Lowery—which was stupid, since he and Claire had gone on one date which was never, ever going to be repeated; and even if that weren’t the case, he logically knew there was nothing going on between her and Lowery. It was just . . .

 

He’d seen them laughing together, one time by the elevator. Well, okay, Claire was not so much laughing as smiling with her lips pursed together, but it wasn’t that fake bullshit smile she usually did (the “Welcome to Jurassic World” sales pitch smile). In all the time that Owen had noticed her— _which was maybe just a slightly-less-creepy way of saying ‘watching her’_ —he’d never seen anyone else make her smile like that.

 

She certainly hadn’t been smiling like that on the date-that-must-not-be-named. Or at all, really. But that wasn’t Lowery’s fault. Time to move past that disaster, once and for all.

 

Too late, Owen realized that he knew absolutely nothing about the other guy, and remembered that he knew even less about small talk. “So . . . some party, huh?”

 

Lowery nodded in agreement, taking a healthy bite out of one of the wings. “I’m pleasantly surprised, to tell you the truth. When I heard Claire was throwing a Christmas party, I half-imagined everyone getting gift bags with a lump of coal while we all listened to some dude in a tux play ‘Greensleeves’ on a lute or something. This? Isn’t half bad.”

 

Owen almost started to admit that he’d helped Claire out, but thought better of it. He’d let her have this one. Let people think for five minutes that she could actually be some fun. No doubt she’d find some way to ruin that new reputation without his help.

 

“You worked with Claire long?” Owen asked instead, taking a sip of the beer he’d nabbed earlier. He’d had to fight Claire, hard, on having that beer here instead of just fancy cocktails.

 

Lowery snorted at that, erasing any lingering doubts Owen might have had about anything even remotely romantic between them. “I appreciate the optimistic use of the word ‘with’ there. Nobody works ‘with’ Claire. We work for her, sure. Under her, definitely—and not in, like, a sexy way, although I wouldn’t mind that.” He laughed, ribbing Owen with his elbow. “I mean, she’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but I have eyes, am I right?”

 

Owen managed a laugh back. Okay, maybe not _all_ lingering doubts.

 

Lowery leaned in a bit closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Actually, some poor schmuck who works here tried to take her out a few weeks ago. Talk about a death wish.”

 

The smile on Owen’s face became frozen, strained. “Oh, yeah? Did she … did she tell you about it?”

 

“The Ice Queen, tell _me_ anything about her personal life?” Another snort from Lowery. “Nah. I overheard her on the phone with her sister. Apparently . . .” He paused, starting to laugh so hard that he had to hold onto his side. “Apparently the guy showed up in board shorts. On a date with Claire Dearing. What a frickin’ moron.”

 

Owen’s teeth began to ache from how hard he was gritting them. “To be fair, it _is_ a tropical island. Plus, they’re really comfortable . . .” He dared a quick glance at Lowery, “. . . so I’ve heard.”

 

Luckily the other guy was still too busy chortling to pay him much mind. “It didn’t go well, suffice it to say. Claire told her sister she would _never_ be seeing him again. ‘Not if he was the last man on earth,’ were her exact words on the subject, as I recall.”

 

It wasn’t anything Owen didn’t already know, but to hear it confirmed so blatantly? Sucked. He managed a smile. “Yeah, well, kinda sounds like she’d already made up her mind before the date even happened.”

 

Lowery wiped at his eyes, shook his head. “Naw, man. That’s the weirdest part. I mean, Claire’s a beautiful woman, don’t get me wrong, but I always kind of assumed she was asexual or had, like, a vagina made out of ice. But I heard her tell her sister—honest to God—that the worst part about how terrible the date went was that she’d been fantasizing about this guy for weeks.” He paused, waiting for Owen’s reaction. “Like, sexually.”

 

Owen swallowed at that, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “She, uh, she said that, huh?”

 

They were interrupted by a beefy hand coming to rest on Owen’s shoulder, accompanied by a reek of alcohol so strong and a drunk-laugh so obnoxious it could only be one man. Hoskins. “Owen, my main man. Getting his groove back at the office Christmas party.” He hiccup-laughed, which turned about halfway through into a belch that he did not bother to cover up. “So, where are the ladies? Who are we taking home tonight, huh?”

 

Owen exchanged a glance with Lowery, reluctantly motioning to the other man. “Hoskins, Lowery. Lowery, Hoskins.”

 

Hoskins did not spare the younger man so much as a glance, his eyes scanning the room. “So far I’m calling it—hottest chick in the room is the dark-haired Irish chick.”

 

Owen followed his none-too-subtle point to Zara, who admittedly looked beautiful in her red lace dress; she’d followed the red and green mandate on Claire’s park-wide memo, even if no one else at the party had.

 

Lowery cleared his throat. “Sorry, dude. She’s engaged.”

 

Hoskins spared him a brief, bleary, disdainful look before turning back to Owen. “Engaged ain’t dead yet, am I right?” Still, his wandering eye roved on, to a skinny girl with long brown hair who was at the gingerbread house station. “Backup plan. What do you know about that one? She has kind of a nerdy girl scout thing going on. I could get into that.”

 

Lowery’s voice, strangely, went up about half an octave. “She’s a lesbian. And a minor. Yep, a sixteen-year-old lesbian intern still in high school. Should probably stay away from that one.”

 

Hoskins let out a low groan, glaring at the younger man. “Owen, who is this lame-o who keeps killing my buzz—”

 

He stopped abruptly, jaw literally hanging open. Following his gaze, Owen saw that Claire had entered the room, wearing a fitted, sleeveless emerald-green gown that hugged her at the waist and breasts but flared out at the skirt into gauzy, near-sheer material with a slit that trailed generously up her thigh. This was paired with some silver, strappy heels, her usually conservative makeup translated into something smoky and sexy and glamorous.

 

So, yeah. She’d gotten the green memo. Owen swallowed, hard.

 

Oblivious to the attention she was getting around the room, Claire did a quick scan before her gaze landed on Owen. Amazingly, her face broke into a broad, genuine grin at the sight of him, and she strode toward him purposefully.

 

It took every inch of Owen’s willpower to keep his eyes on her face as she approached. Which wasn’t a punishment in and of itself. He had never seen her look so pleased, at least not about anything he was involved in.

 

She stopped a few feet away, still beaming. “Mr. Grady. You’ve managed not to dress like a caveman.” Lowering her voice, she gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I think it’s going well, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, I’m having the time of my life right now, sweetheart,” Hoskins slurred at her, resting his weight heavily on Owen’s shoulder as he leaned in.

 

Claire paused to look him over—and in that brief respite from her attention, Owen took the chance to eye her up and down, and swallowed again. That dress was so tight, and that slit was so high, and her skin was so smooth. Owen thought about what Lowery had said, about her fantasizing about him before their date, and kicked himself internally for ever buying those stupid board shorts.

 

He looked back up just as her eyes slid back to his, wary now that she realized what an audience they had. Gone went that open, free smile. Dammit. Owen could have kicked Hoskins, too, repeatedly.

 

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Hoskins,” Claire returned politely, before turning her gaze to Owen. “I’m going to keep an eye on things, but let me know if you notice anything running low.”

 

Owen wasn’t looking at him, but he couldn’t help but be aware of the fact that Hoskins was full-on staring at Claire’s breasts, not even bothering to hide it. “Sure thing,” he returned tightly, suddenly willing Claire to get as far away from them as possible, no matter how good she smelled.

 

His curtness did the trick. Claire gave him a brief, bewildered smile, before snapping back into all-business herself. “Right. Mr. Masrani will be here any moment, so . . .” She did not bother to finish, just abruptly turned and made her way through the crowd.

 

Hoskins tilted his head to watch her go. “Winner winner, chicken dinner. I think I found my slumber party buddy for tonight.”

 

It was ridiculous, obviously. Claire would tase Hoskins in the balls before she ever let him lay a hand on her. But the idea of Hoskins even _looking_ at her made something inside of Owen tighten in angry protest.

 

Oblivious, Hoskins pressed on. “Hoo boy. I’m gonna bang that uptight redhead chick so hard she’s gonna have to wear a helmet.” He doubled over at his own joke, elbowing Owen as if he were in on it. “Don’t worry, man. I’ll let you know if the carpet matches the drapes.”

 

Owen’s hand gripped reflexively into a fist. He was going to punch something, and soon. On his other side, Lowery shook his head. “Good luck with that, buddy.”

 

Hoskins rounded on him, snarling. “I don’t need luck, Poindexter.” He took a placating sip of his drink, swaying slightly on his drink. “By the time I’m done, she’ll be begging for it.”

 

And with that, he was off. Owen followed his path through the crowd for a moment, then forced himself to look away. Claire was a big girl; she could handle herself.

 

Lowery was continuing to watch him, shaking his head. “Your serial-rapist friend seems really cool. I have to say, my favorite part—aside from the blatant misogyny—was how he barely acknowledged my presence. God. Wow. What a prince among men.”

 

“He’s not my friend,” Owen returned. It seemed very important, somehow, to make that incredibly clear. “Just some asshole InGen hired to babysit me.”

 

But it was Owen who ended up doing the babysitting for the majority of the night. Swooping in to put a companionable arm around Hoskins’ shoulders and lead him away any time he got too close to Claire; pulling her away to tell her that some food item was running low when Hoskins did manage to back her into a corner. When Barry finally showed up and Owen explained what was going on, he helped tag-team some of the responsibilities, though not without giving Owen an earful about what this meant about his “true feelings” for Claire.

 

“I had no idea you were so chivalrous, Owen,” Barry pressed with a twinkle in his eye that could have given old St. Nick a run for his money. “A regular knight in shining armor.”

 

“Shut up,” was Owen’s uber-clever reply.

 

#

 

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime but was probably only a few hours, the party began to wind down and people began to disperse. Owen breathed a silent sigh of relief. Not only had he managed to keep Hoskins away from Claire for most of the evening, but Masrani seemed to be having the time of his life, which meant that Claire was pretty much having the best night ever. And when she was happy, her skin did this glowy thing and her smile kind of lit up her eyes, and it was. . .

 

Nice.

 

Not that it mattered. Owen was fully aware that none of it was for him, that he was just a spectator looking on. But damn, he wouldn’t have minded front-row seats to this show, every day.

 

They bumped into each other in the center of the room. Just as Owen was about to make his excuses for why he had to leave— _Friends wasn’t going to watch itself, after all_ —Claire gripped his forearm and did this sort of excited little jiggly dance that was . . . distracting.

 

“Masrani loves it,” she gushed to him, beaming her Julia Roberts mega-watt smile, “ _loves_ it. He’s talking about making this an annual thing and says it’s even better than Steve Carrell’s and I honestly don’t know if he’s talking about the actor or his character on _the Office_ , but either way I don’t care because he loves it and me and I—”

 

She stopped herself short, face turning a little pink, and maybe it was only the three or so beers he’d drunk talking but it seemed like for half a second her eyes darted down to his lips before her tongue darted out to nervously moisten her own. “I—”

 

“Mistletoe!”

 

Owen had been so distracted that somehow he’d missed Hoskins sneaking up on them until it was too late. For a moment, he and Claire both just stared at the man, dumbfounded, until Hoskins loudly and proudly repeated, “Mistletoe!” and pointed upward.

 

As one, Claire and Owen both craned up their necks to see they had, indeed, stopped just beneath the mistletoe he’d hung earlier in the day. And now that Hoskins had joined them, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he intended to bully Claire into giving him a Christmas kiss.

 

Thanks to Hoskins’ shouting, a crowd had formed to watch the show, grinning and egging him on. Worst of all was Mr. Masrani, who had snaked his way to the front and was all but fist-pumping at the thought of seeing this Christmas tradition in action. “Oh, yeah! Mistletoe. You have to do it! Kiss—kiss!”

 

Hoskins snaked an arm around Claire’s shoulders, making his intentions perfectly clear. “Come on, baby. Let’s give the folks what they want. . .”

 

As if in slow motion, Owen watched Claire’s eyes dart to his, widened in a shock that seemed to have paralyzed her body. Hoskins leaned in even closer, exaggeratedly puckering his lips as he moved in—

 

Only to have Owen sandwich in between them, take Hoskins by the face, and kiss him, long and hard.

 

There was a collective gasp from the crowd, followed by tittering laughter. When Owen finally pulled back, it was Hoskins’ turn to look utterly shocked, as all around them people clapped and cheered. “Merry Christmas!” Owen bellowed proudly, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Not one to miss out on some completely unearned adulation, Hoskins recovered quickly and played it up like he’d been in on the joke all along. “Just you wait until New Years!” he returned, patting his belly in what was meant to be a lascivious manner.

 

Owen kept grinning, though he searched the room for Claire. In all the excitement, she’d somehow managed to disappear, which was probably for the best, all things considered. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a weird, plunging sense of disappointment that he tried to tell himself had less to do with her than the Philly cheesesteak he could still taste on Hoskins’ breath.

 

#

 

When Hoskins cornered him a few minutes later, he was in a decidedly less favorable mood. “Hey, jackass, what’s the big idea? I was about to make my move.”

 

Owen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. This day had been all kinds of hell—being forced to help out with a party he hadn’t even planned on attending. Dressing up to impress investors he couldn’t give a shit about. Having to kiss Hoskins to rescue a girl who didn’t give a shit about him.

 

So, yeah, maybe he should have given Hoskins a talking to about consent and no meaning no and all of that, but honestly, he was tired and Hoskins was drunk and he doubted it would do much good anyway. Plus, knowing Hoskins’ type, he imagined there was only really one thing that would deter him from making a move on Claire in the future.

 

“Listen, buddy.” Owen clapped Hoskins on the shoulder. “I was trying to do you a favor. Nobody really knows this, but…” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Claire’s already dating somebody, here on the island.” The widening of Hoskins’ eyes told Owen that he’d hit on the right track. “And I didn’t want you to make a fool out of yourself, kissing somebody else’s girl.”

 

Yes, the argument was archaic— _somebody else has already called dibs_ –-but seeing as how he was dealing with a sort of modern day Neanderthal, it seemed fairly fitting.

 

Hoskins released a loud whistle through his teeth. “Wow. Owen, man.” He grabbed Owen’s shoulder in return, linking them almost in a bear hug. “You just saved me, big time. I owe you, bro.”

 

He leaned in a little closer, making it a difficulty not to reel back from his alcohol-drenched breath. “So who’s the lucky guy?”

 

“Uh…” Owen hadn’t quite thought that one through. It wasn’t like there were a ton of options on the island, which was maybe how he’d managed to land a date with Claire Dearing in the first place. “Well…”

 

“Hey, you two lovebirds!”

 

The two turned to see Lowery—a little tipsy now, himself—grinning at them from across the room as he raised a half-eaten sandwich in salute. “Why don’t you two get a room?” Almost as if afraid they wouldn’t get the joke, he pressed on, “’Cuz you kissed earlier, and now you’re standing all close and stuff.”

 

He waited a moment longer, but, still not getting the response he wanted, finally ambled off.

 

Owen motioned after him with his head. “That guy.”

 

Hoskins’ eyes widened even more. “Seriously?” He shook his head, baffled. “How did _that_ guy, land the hot redhead?”

 

_Whose name you couldn’t even bother to remember, apparently_. Owen shrugged, shaking his own head. “It’s a mystery, man. He must be, like, wicked good in bed.”

 

Hoskins looked after Lowery, nodding, a newfound admiration in his eyes. “Respect,” he said, then set off after him.

 

#

 

Owen had almost made it out—inside the elevator, the door most of the way closed—when a hand reached through, blocking it.

 

“Come on,” he muttered to himself, annoyed at the interruption, until the door slid open, revealing Claire.

 

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, Claire’s hand continuing to brace the door to keep it from sliding shut. “So you’re going home?”

 

Owen swallowed. “That was the plan, yeah.”

 

“Well, you earned it.” Claire gave a quick, perfunctory smile. “You did a great job tonight, with the decorations and . . . everything.”

 

He cocked an eyebrow at her, smiling a little. “Hey, Dearing, are you feeling all right? That almost sounded like a thank you.”

 

It was her turn to swallow, her eyes traveling to his lips again—this time, no question. “No,” she returned, “this is a thank you.”

 

And before he could quite react, she was across the elevator, melting briefly into him as her lips found his and her hands tangled in his hair.

 

It all happened so fast that Owen barely had the presence of mind to raise his arms to wrap them around her. Before he could, she had slipped away, managing to make it back out the door before it had fully slid shut.

  
She blocked it again with her foot, this time standing on the outside of the elevator, grinning at him with her lipstick kind of smudged in a way that just about drove him out of his goddamn mind. “That was for the mistletoe,” she informed him. “Now we’re even.”

 

And with that, she was gone, the elevator door sliding shut behind her.

 

Owen let out a breath, conscious that his hair was probably mussed now and his face smeared with red lipstick, but not at all caring.

 

_Not entirely even_ , he would have told Claire if she’d bothered to stick around to listen. After all, she’d ambush-kissed him, and it only seemed polite to return the favor at some point.

 

_Oh, well_ , he grinned to himself as he punched the button for the ground floor. _New Year’s resolutions_ …


End file.
